


easier to let it go

by RiverOfFandoms



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Falling In Love, Hate to Love, Love/Hate, Romantic Soulmates, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27019204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverOfFandoms/pseuds/RiverOfFandoms
Summary: "...but that didn’t change the fact that he’d known her for her whole life. Well, parts of her. Random words gathered together in loosely thought sentences. Answers to questions in history class or..."Negan only knew you for part of his life but you'd known him for all of yours. Now that the world had come to an end, was it time to finally find out who you both really were? "Soulmarks" or "soulmate-identifying marks" are things your soulmate says, always changing and disappearing. You'd grown up with his words marking your skin; a distant man connected to your soul for a reason you were yet to find out.
Relationships: Negan (Walking Dead) & You, Negan (Walking Dead)/You
Comments: 42
Kudos: 91





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "We don't meet people by accident. They are meant to cross our path for a reason." -- unknown.

“So, you got a soulmate, huh?” 

The last person you expected to ask you that was Daryl Dixon. 

The country redneck with a seemingly troubled history. You hadn’t known him long. You’d arrived at Alexandria shortly after Rick’s group had. In fact, it was Daryl and Aaron who had recruited you. A dirty mess you were, strapping yourself to high tree branches and living off whatever small animal or can of beans you could find. 

Daryl was always quiet. His eyes would wander the scene before him, and he would usually stay away from the Alexandrian crowds, much like you. You felt you could trust him, more than most of the others, and maybe that was because you’d both been broken for far too long. Though, you hadn’t shared that with each other. 

You knew Daryl had seen your soulmark the day he and Aaron found you, even under the layer of dirt, sweat and blood. But you didn’t think he’d ask about it. You didn’t particularly like it when people noticed the jarring words tattooed on your arm, always changing. You grew up with it being a pain in your ass. Your teachers, extended family, friends, _everyone_ would always comment on how vulgar your soulmate seemed. They weren’t wrong, but to grow up with that constantly in your head had dampened and marred the view you had of your own soulmate. 

You were both sitting in the grass near one of the walls. Rosita was up on watch near the gates, you could see her ponytail and cap from where you sat. Daryl was busy cleaning and caring for his crossbow while you were trying to clean the rifle, you’d been getting better at using it. Carol was teaching you for a bit now that her cover had been blown ever since the Wolves attacked and they had to fight off the herd from Alexandria. 

Things weren’t _peaceful_ but… they were better than having group members slashed in the stomach left right and center, half of your group trying to lead a walker herd so the community wouldn’t be in danger, and then the plan failing and having half of those roamers at your doorstep… 

Things were still difficult, they always would be, but better. Especially with the growing connection to Hilltop, another community much like Alexandria. 

You looked at Daryl. His narrowed, blue eyes held yours, not with suspicion but mere curiosity. His eyes glanced at your arm where the words **_Fuck you, bitch-ass_ ** **_bitch_ ** were printed onto your skin. Poetic. Your eyes followed as you stared at the crude sentence your soulmate had spoken not that long ago. 

You sighed. 

“Sounds like a handful,” he commented, tearing his eyes away. He focused on his crossbow again. He started to count how many arrows he had left. 

“He is a handful. And extremely creative with his insults,” you eyed Daryl as he looked up at you again, “Actually, he’s recycling that one, but it’s been a while since I last read it on my arm.” 

Daryl snorted, shaking his head. “So, he’s a he. You know his name?” 

“Nope,” you said, honestly. You fiddled with the rifle. It never managed to pop up in any of the sentences that found their way onto your skin. “But I know he has—or _had_ a wife. Actually…” you started, but you trailed off, you weren’t used to talking about him to anyone else. You’d keep a close eye on the changing marks but most of the time, you pretended he didn’t _actually_ exist. It was easier that way. 

Daryl was waiting for you to finish but you couldn’t manage to tell him that your soulmate, in fact, had many wives these days. So, you settled on a joke instead. “I’m pretty sure he’s a guy, he would always refer to himself as _daddy_ whenever—” you gestured, with a wave of your hand, shaking your head, “you can imagine how my school teachers would react to something so preposterous.” 

Daryl looked amused, wiping the grime from his fingers onto his shirt. “He’s older?” 

You nodded, short and abrupt. That was the other thing. The age-difference. You weren’t sure if you were bothered by it or not, or just used to everyone else being bothered by it. It wasn’t uncommon, there were plenty of soulmate pairings in the same situation as you. But it always took people by surprise. Especially when your soulmate had lived a decent chunk of his life before you were even breathing. 

You sometimes caught yourself wondering what _he_ thought about it all. He never came looking for you, to your knowledge. Probably didn’t know that much about you, either. You’d never tried communicating with him (if it were even possible) and you were pretty sure you didn’t want to. 

“What’s he like?” Daryl asked, jolting you out of your thoughts. 

You laughed cruelly, shaking your head again. You ran a hand through your shoulder-length hair, eyes gazing out to the walls that surrounded you, and said, “My soulmate? He’s a lying, cheating, whoring scumbag,” you caught eyes with Daryl’s blue, “perfect kinda guy, right?” 

*** 

Negan stripped off his leather jacket and let it hang over the chair in his bedroom. His bed was made, but empty. Usually, he could go a good round of whatever the fuck he felt like with one of his wives, especially on such a shitty day like this one, but the exhaustion and stress was getting to him and all he wanted was a nice, cold beer or a glass of whiskey and silence. 

But then his arm flared up with a bit of pain, not anything he couldn’t handle, he was used to this damn kid who dribbled shit day in, day out. He was used to it since the day she was born. Y/F/N Y/L/N was her name, he couldn’t quite recall the exact age, but she was a lot younger than him. 

And when everything changed, when everything turned to shit, he continued getting used to her words. The more painful it became, emotions ran higher in a world like this, but the easier he rolled his eyes and thought less of it. She’d been through some shit, he knew that for sure, but she didn’t matter to him. Survival was what mattered. And wherever the fuck she was, who knew, but he wouldn’t miss the stupid shit printed on his arm if she ever dropped dead. 

He glared at his arm as he raised it in the light, so he could read the fresh words properly. He always tried to keep it covered. It was a distraction and he didn’t like it when the others pointed it out to him. Most people’s soulmarks, those who had ones, were faded, along with their dead significant other. But not his. He had to admit it though, she must have had guts to live this long… especially, to survive what she’d been through. The bits and pieces he knew of. 

**_My soulmate? He’s a lying, cheating,_ ** **_whoring_ ** **_scumbag… perfect_ ** **_kinda_ ** **_guy, right?_ **

Negan laughed. Actually laughed. Out loud. He shook his head. She hardly ever referred to him. Neither of them did, or at least, it would never be communicated to the other. He spoke about it with Lucille a few times. She was curious about it but never pushed it too far. She respected his boundaries. She was good like that. Simon would ask, treading on thin ice, but Negan was always quick to shut it down. 

He stared at her words imprinted in his skin, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. She definitely told it like it was. He suddenly wondered what on earth she’d seen about his life, before and after the turn. Did she recognize names, like he did? Surely, she would. He didn’t recognize them so much anymore, but he remembered Patrice and Danny… there were others, Uncle Tommy, but those felt like memories from a lifetime ago. 

And then there was Philip. 

He continued staring at her words. They were the only things he had of her. Maybe he would miss it if she ever got herself killed. But maybe he wouldn’t. 

“Y/N, sweetheart, you don’t know the half of it.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**_Y/N, sweetheart, you don’t know the half of it._ **

You felt the itching on your arm the next morning. You swatted your other hand at your arm, trying to dull the need to scratch it, but it was a little fiery than usual. And so, when you opened your eyes to peer at the fresh words, expecting him to dribble shit about Lucille again or exclaim how big his dick was, instead you saw your own name and your jaw fell open at the sight.

You sat up, still in bed, but the blankets fell to sit around your waist as you clutched the back of your arm with your other hand. You stared at his words, hard, reading and rereading them. He knew your name. He _addressed_ you, personally… unless… unless he was speaking to someone else.

But what if he wasn’t? You tried to keep tabs on the women he bedded, the wives he kept, but you could have easily missed one with the same name as yours, since not everything he said appeared on your arm. But it was too strange a coincidence. If he was talking to you, what then?

The idea of communicating with this man you’d buried for _years_ shocked you to your core. You’d ignored each other for so long. Your whole life, actually. Was it really okay to be talking with him now? You weren’t sure. You knew you didn’t like the guy, in fact, you could easily hate him. But you knew deep down that it wouldn’t be that straight forward, because he was your soulmate, and of course, your soulmate for a damn good reason.

“Fuck,” you breathed, quietly, glancing out the window. The day seemed to be another warmer one with the blue sky as evidence. You considered ignoring his answer, ending the conversation there, but something bugged you. If he really was talking to _you…_ He knew your name, and you didn’t know his.

“What’s your name?”

***

You kept your arms covered as much as possible, more than usual, despite the sunny weather. You’d sweat more, sure, but how could you explain the fat imprint of your own name on your own arm? As far as everyone (anyone who’d noticed your soulmark) was aware, you never spoke to your soulmate. You didn’t care.

Not only that, talking to people these days was a lot more dangerous than before. You might put the whole community at risk. You fretted over what you had asked him during the morning, and at lunch, too. But it was highly possible that what you asked hadn’t even gone through and wouldn’t go through at all. Like a missing voicemail or text message. It wasn’t like you had complete control over what he saw and what he didn’t about your words. Maybe it was a one-time chance, luck of the draw sort of thing. Maybe, you’d never speak to him again. Not like you ever meant to in the first place.

You refused to worry about it anymore by the time evening began to roll in, with the slowly dimming sky, hues of pinks and purples littered the blue, coloring the clouds like cotton candy. You were double-checking the inventory with Olivia before you headed up to Carol’s house, where she promised you a baked, warm dinner, which you couldn’t decline.

When you arrived at the house, you saw Daryl, huddled on the floor of the living room which connected to the open-plan kitchen. Others wandered about, talking and drinking, waiting for the food to be ready. The group dinners were usually nice and a lot of fun, even if you were somewhat disconnected from majority of the people.

You chose the spot next to Daryl, which was on a cheap rug that sat in front of the empty fireplace.

You rubbed the skin of your arm without thinking, pushing the sleeve up into a bunch near your elbow. It hadn’t changed yet. You hadn’t felt the ridiculous itching sensation, or sometimes, the angry flare of stinging or burning. It still had those sarcastic words inked like a tattoo.

“Ain’t that your name?” Daryl asked, quietly. Most of the others were out of earshot anyway, and despite your anger with yourself for letting it slip in front of him, you were thankful he was quiet about it.

You quickly pulled your sleeve back down to your wrist so that it covered your whole arm again. You hesitated a moment, but the worries you had about it all overcame you and the thought of confiding in someone about it felt soothing. “He might’ve… said something to me, I guess.”

“Like what?” he asked, having not caught the whole sentence.

“Telling me off, I suppose,” you answered, vaguely. You glanced at the gathering people. Talk of their day consumed most of the house. You hid your smile by shaking your head, “I think he must have got a snippet of our conversation from yesterday.”

“Mhm,” Daryl said, an all-knowing look in his eyes. “And so? You say anythin’ back?”

“I don’t know,” you mumbled. You didn’t really want to have this conversation. It was all so confusing and complicated. Speaking to your soulmate, actually _communicating_ with him, was so far-fetched and crazy – you wondered if you had made a mistake.

You decided to change topic, “Any other soulmates you know of? I think I saw a soulmark on Glenn—”

“Mm,” Daryl confirmed, with a nod of his head, “Glenn n’ Maggie.” He paused a moment, his eyes glancing to the others. He bent his knee so that he could reach his foot, where, he untied his laces and pulled his boot off. He pulled down the sock.

There, you saw a tattoo much like yours printed onto the skin of his inner ankle. It was faded grey, and sort of blotchy, but readable. The handwriting felt feminine to you. You didn’t say anything at first, shocked that he would show you such a thing without as much as a word. He was quick to cover it up again. It had read:

_I get it now._

You swallowed. The words felt eerie. And then it hit you, the reason they were faded. Whoever it was must have passed. You looked at him sadly, but he didn’t falter, it seemed, to you, that his tears for his soulmate had dried up a long time ago.

“Did you… ever meet them?”

He nodded. He was tying up his laces again, his fingers and eyes focused on the task at hand. His voice was quiet still, “After the world turned. She was sixteen when we met.” He sighed, short and abrupt. “When I realized it was _her_ , I…” he looked up at the crowd of people now laughing loudly at each other’s jokes. Dinner smelt good and would be ready soon enough. “Well, we never spoke about it.”

“Not once?” you blurted, suddenly curious.

He shook his head. “There was a moment. I knew she knew; it doesn’t take a genius to figure somethin’ like that out, ‘specially when you talk to each other every day. But then she was gone.” His blue eyes seemed distant and tired. Tired of everything going to shit all the time. “The next time I saw her, she died.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“Don’t gotta be,” he said. “What I’m meaning to say is, you could damn well live your life without meeting him ever, without just _talkin’_ to him—” he looked at you, eyes firm, “but why would you?”

Carol called everyone for dinner, and you couldn’t get another word in as Daryl stalked off, upstairs. Probably to the bathroom. You watched him disappear up the next level. You sighed.

You didn’t speak about soulmates with Daryl again during dinner. And afterwards, when you got back to your own bed, before you could even get your shoes off, your arm itched and tingled with new words. You were quick to shove your sleeve upwards, ignoring the slight twinge of pain that the rough movement had caused the new tattoo.

**_None of your fuckin’ business, doll. My secret to keep._**

You frowned. “Well, that’s not fucking fair, is it? How come you know mine?” You were pretty pissed off when you’d spoken aloud, as if answering him on a phone call. You didn’t even think twice. And so, when he answered you almost immediately, it only half-surprised you.

**_First tattoo inked into my skin. Y/F/N Y/L/N. Remember, ‘my name is Y/N, and I like trees and dogs and lemonade,’?_**

So, your name had been printed on him at your birth, you supposed. But you weren’t expecting him to remember _that_. You blushed at his repeat of the long-forgotten memory. It must’ve been on your first day of school. You weren’t sure. You were surprised he’d remembered it at all.

You felt embarrassed and annoyed by his remark. As if he were insulting you or making fun of you. He knew your name, your memories, parts of your life you had forgotten, and he wouldn’t even tell you his? A rush of frustration welled within you, and you said hotly, “The things I could repeat that you’ve said,” you breathed, “you’d be squirming in your seat, _daddy._ ” You felt immediately repulsed by what you had said but you didn’t care. He’d used that so many times over the years, and you always somehow got scolded for it in class, because the other students would laugh so loudly. It wasn’t _your_ fault he talked so dirty while fucking another woman. You wanted his damn name, and so you’d make him give it to you, somehow, you’d just have to find his weak spot.

You almost thought he’d had enough of your whining when the tattoo changed yet again. You’d never had so much itching, it was like you could _feel_ his annoyance. You dared to look at the new words, and almost laughed.

**_W_** ** _atch your fuckin’ mouth, princess. You don’t know who you’re talkin’ to._**


	3. Chapter 3

“Watch your fuckin mouth, princess,” Negan said, downing another mouthful of whiskey. He set the glass down on the table that he kept in his bedroom, ignoring the maps and plans that were sprawled out before him. “You don’t know who you’re talkin’ to.”

He eyed the word _daddy_ now on his fuckin’ arm. God, she was a pain in the ass. And still a fuckin’ kid in his eyes. She was probably in her twenties by now but that didn’t change the fact that he’d known her for her whole life. Well, parts of her. Random words gathered together in loosely thought sentences. Answers to questions in history class. Yelling and screaming at her parents for being such assholes and not letting her make any fuckin’ mistakes – _that_ he’d always shake his head at. You gotta let kids make mistakes, it was what life was for.

Was this a mistake? Talkin’ to her, after all these years?

He shook the thought away. She was driving him crazy. Ever since he saw her refer to him on his fuckin’ arm, he couldn’t get her out of his head. He didn’t even know her, but he did, all the same. It was confusing. It was complicated. It didn’t make a lick of sense.

**_Exactly. I don’t know who I’m talking to. So, how about you introduce yourself?_**

He stared at the new words. Her words. He could imagine her tone of voice as she said them aloud, wherever she was. She could be across the country. She could be across an ocean, he wouldn’t know. She would have said them all smug like, he thought. Like she thought she was getting to him, like she thought he’d finally cave and tell her his name. But he wouldn’t.

He took another mouthful of the whiskey, draining the glass. He set it down again, staring at the words she’d said. If she had his name… that was too risky. Besides, she was just some kid, she didn’t mean a thing to him for 20+ years, why should she mean anything to him now?

No matter how hard he denied it, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of curiosity tug at his mind. _No_ , he thought, _No fuckin’ point._

***

**_You don’t wanna know me, darlin’. And I sure as shit don’t wanna know you._ **

It’d been two days since those words appeared on your arm, and they hadn’t vanished yet. You couldn’t say anything back. You weren’t sure you wanted to, and if you did, you weren’t sure what you would say. You felt like telling him to _fuck right off, grandpa,_ but you didn’t want him to think it had bothered you, the way he was so cold about it.

You weren’t bothered. Or you were, a little maybe, but you refused to believe it. He was the one to answer you first, but now he wanted nothing to do with you. It was an asshole move and you didn’t like it. In all honesty though, you should have expected it.

You were looking for Daryl when Maggie said that he’d left to go hunting. Things with Hilltop were starting to concern you, talk of a group called the Saviors, but you weren’t really keeping up with all the details. You mostly kept your head down and did your work, but you couldn’t help feel as though something awful was going to happen.

“Can I help, though?” Maggie offered, tucking strands of hair behind her ear. She glanced at your soulmark.

You figured that no one would know what your soulmate meant this time, so with the heat of the day, you weren’t bothered to cover it up. You didn’t like the sweat. Besides, it was taken completely out of context, no one would know the true meaning of it. “It’s okay, I think I’ll just wait—” you turned to go, but instead, you lingered. And Maggie noticed.

You sighed. “Daryl told me about you and Glenn...”

“How we’re soulmates?”

You nodded. Kicking the dirt and gravel up, you hesitated, “You didn’t meet until after... all this started?”

“Mhm,” she said, a small smile curved her lips. “Daddy was always very protective of —of us.” She noticed your confused look, “My sister.” She stared at her shoes a moment, as she thought, “He was amazed that not just _one_ but _both_ of his only daughters had soulmarks.”

You were surprised. You couldn't imagine having a sibling who also had a soulmark. You were the only one in your immediate family to have a soulmate. Your dad's grandparents were soulmates but they both passed when you were very little. You'd known of some people throughout your life who shared your troubles with it but they were mostly happy and none of them close friends or family. They would gush about their soulmates excitedly and tell you of their first dates. You mostly heard these stories at the nursing home you worked at, before all of this. Their relationships with their soulmates were bliss.

That just wasn't something you understood.

“So,” Maggie continued, “he didn’t want us to meet them ‘til we were old enough. In his eyes, that meant twenty-one or so. But things got in the way and then... well, then the change happened.”

“But you still found him.”

She nodded, smiling. “It still amazes me how we found each other. I guess it really was meant to be.” She glanced out at the walls again, a brief silence, “I think... I think we’ll always find each other, in the end. Whatever happens in life or in the world, we’re _connected_. We’re supposed to be with each other. You know?”

You nodded, though you didn't really understand it at all.

“You tried talkin’ to him?” Maggie asked, nodding to your arm.

“No,” you said quickly, probably too quickly, and avoided Maggie’s curious stare. You glanced back down to the garden where you’d have to start trimming some of the plants. Not a lot of food was growing but it was something, at least. Something to keep your mind occupied. “He’s just being an ass to some poor girl, again.”

Maggie nodded. “I’ve seen some of the stuff he’s said.”

You laughed a little nervously, “Not a nice guy, that’s for sure.”

“Not everyone’s soulmate is,” she concluded, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. “But maybe… maybe he could be?”

You practically snorted at her response, shaking your head. “He’s selfish,” you answered, feeling a breeze shift the air. “He’s always been like this, even before everything changed. He’s not a stand-up guy, he’s a dick.” You turned to go, having had enough of the conversation. You were sick of thinking about him. You needed him out of your head. He didn’t exist.

“You only know those parts of him—” Maggie tried, but you shook your head. You were done.

***

**_Spencer. Just fuck me already._ **

Negan didn’t like it one bit. He’d heard bits and pieces of this Spencer. From what he could gather, Y/N didn’t even like the guy much. And yet, she’d keep going back to him for more. She might think _he_ was a whoring scumbag but at least he somewhat liked the women he—

Negan stood up from the couch and fell onto his bed. The frame creaked with his weight. One of his wives muttered something in her sleep. He just wanted _her_ out of his fuckin’ head.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Who the fuck is Spencer?_ **

You peered at your arm as it exploded with hidden venom and something that felt similar to jealousy, but you were never the best at picking out your soulmate’s emotions, being so out of tune for such a long time. You regretted sleeping with Spencer. It was sort of a thing you had going on with him off and on again, nothing serious, but you had recently promised to stop doing it when last night, it happened out of the blue. You were pretty drunk. Spencer too. Alcohol and anger didn’t mix well with two lonely people.

You didn’t know why _he_ was so mad about it. He had no right. He fucked anything that breathed.

Besides the tattoo on your arm, you had a variety of scars. Long, thin, deep, thick. They littered your skin. Most Alexandrians knew you had them, they were easier to spot than the soulmark because there were so many. You didn’t grow up with people looking at these scars, though, that was the only difference between them and the soulmark. They were new.

You closed your eyes. You hated remembering.

You slid down the sleeve of your jacket, the weather was a little cooler today, so the long sleeves were bearable, and there was no way you’d show anyone what your soulmate had said. You shook away the thoughts of him, returning to tending the plants and the soil. You ignored the constant itchiness and _his_ grumpy mood. You didn’t always feel his emotions, but when you did, it made you mad. It reminded you how connected you both were. How he wasn’t just some flash of words on your skin, but a real, living and breathing man. Unfortunately.

***

You woke up with a start, your arm hot. It was still night. You pawed at the skin where the words burned into your flesh. You could make out what they said, even in the dark. You didn’t bother turning on a light. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and read them, **_Line. Up. Fuckers. Lucille is hungry!_**

Lucille? You’d seen her name every now and then since the turn, his wife, but you had started to wonder if she didn’t make it. You guess she did, after all. What did she think about all his wives? You didn’t know how many he had but he sure liked to brag about them.

The thought of Lucille sparked a memory. Negan had said,

**_I do love you, baby. I love you with my whole heart, Lucille._**

You were fairly young when you saw that on your arm. You didn’t remember how long ago… but it was before the turn. If he really loved her so much, then how could he do this to her? Treat her like she meant nothing? Was that how he was with everyone he cared for? You swallowed, your mouth dry and your thoughts wild. If it were, then you were glad you never met him. Glad he didn’t want anything to do with you.


	5. Chapter 5

**_It’s easier when you don’t have anyone left to care about._ **

Negan read those words on his arm and immediately wanted a drink.


	6. Chapter 6

The community was supposed to feel at peace. They’d laid their worries to rest when they took out the Saviors at the satellite outpost. Yet, little did they know, how much of a storm they were in for. You felt uneasy ever since. You hadn’t gone with them to help; you couldn’t see yourself doing that much damage over something you knew little about. Everyone seemed to blindly follow Rick’s orders, so you weren’t about to question him in front of the others. You doubted their morals but ultimately knew it was about survival. You knew you just had to accept it and move on.

But the day wasn’t even over when you felt an incredible burn along your arm. You doubled over, breathing fast. You let out a frightened yelp. You were walking down the middle of the road, on your way to another group dinner when the new words practically seared across your skin. Now you were crouched, clutching your arm, pressing it against your chest. The pain was unbearable. 

“It fucking hurts! Stop!” you yelled, squeezing your arm. You blinked away the hot tears that rushed to your eyes as the pain burst across your skin. You stared down at the blurry words, **_THEY’RE FUCKIN WITH THE WRONG PEOPLE._**

It changed, right before your eyes.

**_YOU DON’T_ **

The pain was so overwhelming, you couldn’t breathe properly. Your stomach felt sick. You wanted to throw up or pass out from the intensity of it all, but neither would come willingly. The words no longer made any sense, it was like you were receiving bits and pieces over a weak phone signal. The anger he felt rushed through you, it was pure rage. You’d never felt anything like it before.

**_THAT PRICK_**

**_SIMON_ **

“Fucking stop, you son-of-a-bitch! It _hurts!_ ” you pleaded, and you felt a hand on your shoulder. You didn’t turn around to see who it was. Before you could scream any more profanities and curse words, your eyes rolled into the back of your head and you passed out, crumpling onto the asphalt.

***

Negan’s arm exploded, much like his inner rage. Or outer. He’d already smashed a few things up in his office with Lucille. That prick thought he could get the jump on them, but they _sure as shit_ didn’t know what was coming.

“Boss?” Simon asked, after Negan finished shouting and cursing the whole lot of those Alexandrians. He had noticed the sudden flare up on Negan’s arm, and with the way Negan gritted his teeth, he knew whatever _she_ said must have hurt.

Negan was breathing heavily when he lifted his arm to look at what she had said.

**_Fucking stop, you son-of-a-bitch! It hurts!_**

He eyed those words carefully, his breathing becoming steady. The pain that she’d felt had boiled within him for a moment but had passed quickly. _Too_ quickly. He ignored thoughts of worry for her. He had bigger fish to fry. “Leave,” he said, so calmly that it sent chills down Simon’s spine. Even if hesitant to, Simon left with Dwight in tow and the door closed behind them.

Negan stared at his arm, the rage still simmering, but it was quieter now. He knew what he had to do. They couldn’t just get away with it. Slaughtering his people while they slept? Alexandria would pay for it, with everything they owned. It would be his.

The pain he felt from her had been overwhelming, and he suddenly wondered if he was the cause of it. Had his anger transferred a burn so lethal that she felt his rage in her skin? He’d felt her emotions before. Like the time she kissed Danny and couldn’t shut up about it for a week, he’d felt her joy. Or the moments of unexplainable grief because no words followed.

Or the searing pain he had felt all over his arms, as if he were being sliced open, and the name _Philip_ in her desperate cries.

He let out a shaky breath which turned into a frustrated sigh. He leaned back against the table behind him. He swallowed. He opened his mouth—

***

**_Y/N. I’m sorry, doll. I’m so sorry._ **

That was the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes. You felt exhausted and weak. As if all the energy had been drained from you entirely, you couldn’t even react emotionally to the new words you’d seen from him. Your arm was red and splotchy, even little bulbs of blood had spotted the skin as if the soulmark really was just a fresh tattoo. Your eyes widened a little at the use of your name again when your brain finally caught up and you realized what it was that he had said. But you were quick to not care. _Him_. It was just too much to think about.

“Enid,” you whispered when you had caught her eye. She was supervising you, still in the infirmary. Everything seemed so bright. You blinked. Your voice was a little raspy and your mouth and throat dry.

“Here,” Enid said. She passed you some water which you gulped down gratefully. “You’ve been out since last night.”

You put the cup back down on the bedside table after finishing it. You remembered what had happened, the immense pain you felt. Some of the words drifted loosely in your weak memory but most of it was a big jumble now. You breathed in deeply.

“Denise is on a run with Daryl and Rosita, but she’ll be back soon. She can check up on you then.” Enid glanced at your arm and was quiet for a moment, but it looked like she had something to say. The silence was broken when she finally spoke, “At least… at least he’s sorry about it.”

You closed your eyes. You wanted to hide your arm, but the pain lingered just a bit, it was still tender, and you were so tired. “Yeah,” you breathed, “I guess.” Maybe she was right. Maybe not. Right now, you couldn’t force yourself to care. All you knew was that he had an explosive kind of rage inside him, and you weren’t sure you could understand it.

But then again if you were still the person you were before coming to Alexandria…

“I didn’t really know anyone who had soulmarks, before all this,” Enid said, quietly. “I think… I wanted one, you know, when I was a kid.”

You opened your eyes, peering up at her. She seemed deep in thought. “And now?” you asked.

She shook her head. “Wouldn’t be much point to it.” She looked as if she regretted saying it aloud, and then quickly excused herself to fill up your empty cup. When she came back with it full, you were fast asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Denise didn’t make it back. Daryl left to go avenge her death and Glenn, Rosita, and Michonne followed.

***

**_You’re leaving?_ **

Negan felt relieved to see the words on his skin change, after not hearing from her since _that_ night. But he was quick to move on. “Tonight, Simon.”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Tonight, we meet them. Career day.”

***

**_It’s gonna be pee-pee pants city here real soon._ **

**_You thought you were safe._ **

You woke up to his words appearing rapidly on your skin again. It was some time in the middle of the night, it was dark out and the air was cold. The pain was back, duller, and manageable, in the beginning. But it grew steadily with every changing mark. You didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, but you wanted it to stop. You fought it by gritting your teeth, your right hand curled into a tight fist around your blanket. You weren’t sure you could survive another explosion of rage.

Was that the emotion you were feeling? There was some kind of amusement. You didn’t get it. You didn’t understand it at all. The words were changing so fast, you had to stare at your arm constantly. You turned to lay on your back and held your arm above your eyes. Something about it all made you feel uneasy and you weren't sure if it was because everyone was anxious about the trip taken to Hilltop for Maggie’s baby. They were delivering her to their doctor. But after Denise was taken out, they wanted to go as a group, so she would be protected from Saviors lurking in the trees…

**_I don’t want to kill you people._**

You swallowed.

**_But you killed my people, a whole damn lot of them._**

You clenched your fists, breathing rapidly. It wasn’t fear you felt. It was pride.

**_This—this is Lucille, and she is awesome._**

And then, you felt nothing.


	8. Chapter 8

When the Saviors came knocking at Alexandria’s doors soon after the traumatic event of Abraham and Glenn’s deaths, you weren’t around to greet them. In fact, you were pretty late to the party. You’d just been at Hilltop, doing what you could in support for Maggie, and Sasha too, who were hiding out there away from the Saviors.

You wanted to help somehow and keep yourself busy. You had some experience with nursing, from your old life at the nursing home, and you kept up the practice with Pete when he was alive, and then Denise, when you weren’t tending to the gardens. So, you tried to offer whatever skills you had for Maggie while she grieved her soulmate’s death. You hoped you had helped, somewhat. You were glad that the baby would be okay.

But you hadn’t known that when you would get back to Alexandria, the trucks would be lined up outside the walls. It appeared that the Saviors came to take what they wanted, filing out with mattresses, food, medical supplies. Whiskey. Anything and everything, really.

They were closing the truck doors when you approached the front gate. Some of them stopped you from approaching the community, as if they were sizing you up. They asked you where you’d been. You explained that you were out searching for supplies for them and passed them the box you procured as evidence of that. You hoped they bought your lie as your shoes crunched over the gravel, approaching the community gate.

You instinctively held your breath when your eyes fell on the man with the bat. You’d heard about what he did. You knew what he used that very bat for. You didn’t get much detail from the other’s who’d witnessed it, not that you wanted it anyway, but you had heard enough.

_He beat their heads in._

You fought the grimace on your face as he walked out of Alexandria, a few men by his sides. A guy with a somewhat comical moustache followed him closely, a stern look in his eyes.

Rick peered at you from the gate as he kept it open for you. He looked at you desperately, something close to fear clouded his blue eyes. He glanced back at the man with the bat, who’s back was to Rick still as he made it obvious that he was checking you out, while you approached them.

You were going to walk past them without a word when the man with the bat stopped you with a look. He tilted his head. A couple of his men went to the trucks, making sure everything was packed and ready to go. You glanced behind, making sure your parked car wasn’t in their way. It wasn’t.

“ _Beautiful_ day isn’t it, doll?” he said suddenly, which caught your attention again. There was an unusual enthusiasm to his voice. His hazel eyes were distant as he stared up at the warm sky. His gaze dropped to you and you noticed the black leather gloves, leather jacket and well-kept dark hair. He smiled something wicked at you. “Be a peach and hold Lucille for me, would you sweetheart?” he offered the bat to you, and you blinked at him.

_Lucille. Doll. Sweetheart._

You took the bat from his leather clad hands without another thought, though your heart was racing in your chest at an unbelievable pace. You stilled your face and tried to keep your eyes from showing your pure shock and realization. The man didn’t seem to notice, and if he did, he probably thought you were just mildly uncomfortable about holding a bat called Lucille, which was fairly natural. He was used to that sort of reaction.

The thing felt heavy in your hands, but also lighter than you expected. You eyed the barbed wire wrapped around its end, but the name _Lucille_ wouldn’t leave your mind. You knew why. You couldn’t deny nor refuse it, the connection was plain as day.

“Simon,” the man said to his right-hand man, and he talked quietly with Simon, the Savior who sported the almost outrageous moustache. You couldn’t hear what they were saying but you felt the familiar sting on your arm all the same.

_Simon._ You’d known that name, too. You caught eyes with Rick. He nodded, as if telling you that you had nothing to worry about. But your world, your reality, it was distant now. None of it made sense. The scumbag whose words had been printed on your arm since birth was the same man who murdered your friends with a bat named after his wife, who paraded around Alexandria taking what he pleased. And he was here, right in front of you.

And you were holding his fucking bat, his _Lucille_.

“Thanks,” the man said, taking the bat from your hands after he’d spoken with Simon in private. The smell of this man, it was familiar. You couldn’t place it, but it invaded your nostrils the same way it had invaded your moments of sleeplessness at night.

You were glad to get rid of the thing. You weren’t sure how much longer you could stand up straight, keep your knees from wobbling or the shocked tears from your eyes. You wanted to scream, or hit him, but you kept the same position.

He glanced you over again, but someone shouted his name from the truck, and he turned to inspect. He looked back at you momentarily, “Gotta dash, welcome back to Alexandria,” he flashed you a grin and took off towards one of the trucks, swinging Lucille to rest on his shoulder as he walked.

You couldn’t force yourself away from where you stood. You even watched as they drove away, leaving Alexandria in the dust. _Negan._ You’d heard it. The name. You’d heard one of his men yell it. _Negan_. You felt hot tears well up in your eyes as the trucks disappeared completely from view.

You rolled up your sleeve in a flash, something inside you willing for the words printed there to be different—

**_Beautiful day isn’t it, doll?_**

You wanted to throw up, but you couldn’t. You dropped to your knees, and then bent forward, your fingers digging into the dirt. The tears blurred your vision. You felt a panic deep within your chest, your stomach, everything.

“Y/N?” Rick asked, concerned. You heard his footsteps approach you. “Someone get the car!” he yelled, and another pair of feet clambered by, shuffling in the dirt. You heard the familiar sounds of a car door opening and closing, the ignition starting and the wheels pressing slowly over the grass and then back onto the gravelly road into town.

He crouched down beside you, “Y/N? Are you hurt? What’s—”

“I’m okay,” you squeaked, and wiped your eyes. You sat back on your heels, gasping out breaths. You stood up slowly, your legs shaky. “I’m fine.”

“I’ll take you to the infirmary—”

“I’m fine,” you repeated, and headed straight for a quiet moment in your bedroom, and maybe a glass of whiskey, if there was any left.

Time had passed since Rick witnessed your outburst. You were suddenly anxious about speaking for the rest of the day. You couldn’t reveal any information that would hinder Alexandria, and you couldn’t reveal any information that you were part of this community. You didn’t want _him_ to find you. You’d have to learn to be quieter. Say less. Be cautious.

But all you wanted to do was yell and scream at the world for giving you a cold-hearted murderer as your soulmate.

***

**_I’m fine._ **

Negan blinked. She’d said that a few times before, after awful shit had happen. He remembered. One of those times, that Danny boy she liked broke her heart. And again, another time, when someone close to her had died.

She was sure-as-shit _not fine_ ; he knew it, he could feel it in his bones. But he couldn’t do much about it. She never called him up again through their soulmarks, so he figured she’d had enough of him. He didn’t blame her. He was easy to be mad at.

The day was nearing to an end. His bed was empty. He resisted the urge to drown himself in more whiskey. He sighed—

***

**_Feel better, sunshine._ **

You didn’t know who his words were for. But it didn’t sting, didn’t flare up or swell or pinch. The letters had formed so quietly, you almost didn’t notice their existence.

You’d cried about your soulmate’s identity, then gritted your teeth and got on with it. You couldn’t mope about it forever. It wasn’t like you cared about him in the first place. You had the community to worry about, and your own life. He was just some guy. A distant being you were only weakly connected to through the script in your skin.

_Negan_.

Now he had a name. It made it worse, you were certain of it. You couldn’t get it out of your head, couldn’t get _him_ out of your head. The familiar smell of him you caught with your brief meeting, his hazel eyes, deep voice, and mischievous smile.

“Fuck off,” you said aloud, without really meaning to. You just wanted the man out of your head, but the panic had caught your mind and removed all logic and reason. You didn’t realize that Negan might’ve received your words—

***

**_Fuck off._ **

Negan smiled, turning over in his bed. He stared at his arm as it rested over the empty space beside him. “That’s my girl.”


	9. Chapter 9

You were at Rick’s house helping supervise Judith with Olivia. Olivia was upset over the recent depletion in food and other important resources that Alexandria needed, due to the last raid from Negan and his Saviors, and so she wouldn’t just accept that everyone was in on this shitshow together as she complained all afternoon to you. You understood her anxiety, _everyone_ was worried how this would turn out, but what would harping on about it do? Only stress you all out further.

You tried to be as polite as possible without conversing too much or letting slip too much detail. You still didn’t want Negan to know your whereabouts, your identity. To be truthful, you never wanted him to find out. God knows what he would do to you if he ever did now that he had Alexandria under his control. And what would the others think? Your friends, who were all hurt by this man, your soulmate? It was too much to even think about.

Speaking of _him_ , you’d notice a flare up of interest and pride. Tidbits of conversation suggested he was showing someone around the Sanctuary. You didn’t know what he was planning but he sounded far too bigheaded and douchebag-like for you to even care.

Judith was crawling on the carpet of the living room when she stopped, interested in a small beetle that must have crawled inside. It was a warmer day without much wind, so the bugs would evidently be out and about. You quickly picked up the beetle before Judith could grab it and stick it in her mouth. As you shook the beetle from your hand out the backdoor, there was a thunderous knock on the front door.

Olivia stopped her rambles and eyed the front door with a frown.

You thought it could be Rick, though he wouldn’t bother knocking on his own home’s door. You padded over to the entry before the person could knock again, and you swung the door open carelessly, without hesitation. To your surprise, there stood your soulmate. Clad in leather. Wide, perfect grin. And Carl, standing behind him.

“Well, well, well!” Negan exclaimed, taking in the view of you standing in the entry just a bit _too_ honestly. His smile only widened when he caught you frowning at him. “Not who I was expectin’ but glad to see, all the same.”

You exhaled quietly, hoping he wouldn’t pick up on your stress. You had to be calm and emotionless, it had worked so far.

“Gonna let me in, sweetheart?”

You moved quickly from the entrance, silently, clutching the doorknob like a lifeline as you pushed the door open wider. Your grip on the handle tightened as he passed you by, probably because it helped you to _not_ take a swing at the older man, and from the pain you felt searing across your arm at his recent words. Luckily, you were already wearing a long sleeve, which had been the norm ever since you found out who your soulmate was.

Olivia practically squeaked when she realized who the guest was.

You eyed Carl, wondering why he was with Negan. Last you heard, he and Enid went off to Hilltop. But here he was, as if ushering Negan like some kind of tour guide. You tried to catch his eye to see if he were okay, but he wouldn’t take his eyes off the older man in front.

Negan was looking for Rick, except Rick was still away from camp, looking for supplies. Olivia tried to shakily explain this as you watched silently near the front door, still.

You edged closer to the entrance, knowing it would only be safer for everyone if you were as far away from Negan as possible. So, you took a couple steps but stopped when his low, gravelly voice addressed you directly.

“Leaving so soon?” he tilted his head, eyebrow cocked in question.

You blinked at him. Hating the way his eyes on you made you feel. He had a handsome face, and he knew it. He might’ve really been someone you could be with if he wasn’t such a monster.

The look in his eyes screamed trouble.

He smiled at your silence, and at the look on your face. He thought your frown was endearing, charming, even. “Come by later, maybe?” he asked, his eyes flashing. “I’m sure I could think up a few things for us to do…” you knew _exactly_ what he meant.

You knew he was just trying to rile you up, to get you angry. Maybe he got off on that kind of stuff. You smiled at him, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes, and you answered him, “I’ll think about it.”

Olivia seemed shocked that you would respond to him at all let alone with such a condescending attitude.

But Negan… he only smiled wider.

You left them be, quickly hurrying out the door as their conversation turned back to Rick’s whereabouts. You tried to keep your breathing steady as you rushed off, hoping not to seem alarming. He didn’t show any signs of discomfort nor did he check his soulmark, so you hoped you had control over it somehow.

***

Negan watched the pretty young thing disappear around the corner. She’d caught his eyes the moment he saw her, last time he had visited. Something about her smell, her eyes and her mouth; the way she frowned at him with her defensive stance. It was almost as if she knew something about him that he didn’t. It was intriguing.

He liked her.

He turned to the bigger woman, a name he’d already forgotten. She wore an unflattering open blue-button-up shirt with an equally unflattering stripy undershirt. He tossed his Lucille between his hands, eyeing her, “Where’s Rick?”

***

You decided to keep yourself busy. It was the only way to distract yourself from _his_ presence in Alexandria, though it was hardly working at all. You thought you would just tend to the gardens since there wasn’t any other work that needed doing.

But soon after you got ready to trim plants and pull out some weeds, you heard Negan’s booming voice across the way. You snuck a couple glances and realized he was sitting with Carl out on the front porch, bobbing little Judith up and down on his knee as if her were only her uncle coming for a visit.

It was all so strange.

You wished someone would get hurt, despite that being a bad thing to wish upon someone, just so you could take them to the infirmary and patch them up; getting away from the distant glances that Negan wasn’t so subtle about. You hated that he would look at you the way he did. Like he was interested in you or something. It was both ironic and pathetic.

_If only he knew._

You huffed and frustratedly patted down the soil around the stem and over the planted roots, trying to push thoughts of him out of your head.

“Hey, _sunshine!_ ” his voice practically sang across the road. You turned while still crouched in the dirt. He had a hand over his eyes to shade them from the sun as he peered out at you, Judith still sitting safely on his lap. “How’s about you take a quick break, huh? We got a fresh jug of lemonade!”

Of course, you didn’t want to. But to deny the request of Negan would be suicide. You knew the anger that seeped through his veins, you’ve felt it before, in his words that burned across your arm or in the drastic emotions that clouded his judgment. You didn’t want to be cause for another heated outburst.

So, you stood up and brushed the dirt from your legs. You breathed. You started towards them, reminding yourself to keep your cool and not bite on the bait he would surely dangle. He wanted to reel you in, but you needed to keep your distance. You would not survive if he knew your true identity, your _connection_ to him.

It would be hard to ignore his pesky comments and suggestive remarks. He was good at pissing people off. You’ve had evidence of that on your arm for your whole life.

They were seated on two deck chairs, a small table sat between them which held the jug of cold, lemonade, their glasses and Judith’s baby bottle. Negan reached for the jug with his one free hand as he steadied the young child with his other and poured you a glass. As he set the heavy jug back down, you walked over and leaned across him to grab your glass before he could offer it to you. You ignored the cologne, gripping the glass tightly as if to focus on staying calm. His eyes followed you.

“Thank you,” you said politely, void of emotion. You stood up straight now and ignored the way he was staring up at you, as if leaning across him was the hottest thing imaginable.

“Don’t sweat it, darlin’. You were working hard out there,” he nodded to the garden patch across the road. He spoke slowly as if he were trying too hard to capture your attention. He had your attention alright, but not for the reason he hoped.

You ignored his stare by taking a sip of the cool drink. The lemonade really was refreshing and so you swallowed a couple more mouthfuls to cool down from the heat.

“You know,” he leaned forward in his seat slightly, “I could give Judith here over to her brother and you could take her spot?” his thick eyebrows were pulled up in a suggestive manner and there was a mischievous look in his eyes.

You felt your cheeks grow hot from his remark. You turned away from him, hoping he hadn’t seen, and instead took a seat on the porch steps without saying another word.

Negan couldn’t help but be amused at your reaction as he let out a quiet chuckle. “I think she’s embarrassed, Judy,” he cooed at the child as he passed her over to her brother.

You were eager to finish off your drink so you could make getting back to work an excuse enough to leave. You were nervous but you were good at not letting it show. You kept your breaths steady and didn’t shy away when he talked to you, but one wrong emotion, one wrong word, and it could blow your cover.

“What’s your _favorite_ food, doll? Tell me,” he asked, setting his finished drink down on the table.

You stared at your now empty glass as you passed it from one hand to the other, watching the almost melted ice cubes tumble over at the bottom. “Spaghetti,” you answered, easily. Nothing could ever beat a hot bowl of Italian pasta.

Negan went wide-eyed, “No shit, huh?” he grinned. “Honey, you’re makin me _tingle_. Spaghetti is my absolute favorite.” He paused, watching your silent expression. You offered him a small smile. He shook his head in disbelief, “Who would’a thought… well, spaghetti it most _certainly_ is! After I shave, first.”

He stood up from his chair, stretching his arms above his head and yawning loudly. You peered up at his arms which were thick with muscle and spotted his tattoo, _his_ soulmark. Your words **_Fuck off_** lingered there.

He noticed your stare and you quickly flitted your eyes away from the mark before he’d grow suspicious. Maybe he would just think you were checking out his arms, you hoped. He didn’t say anything about it.

Carl watched him with displeasure; he was seething with hatred. You could see it in his eyes and in the way he gripped the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles were white. He was restraining himself, much like you were, but for both very different reasons.

You couldn’t help noticing the tiny slip of skin that Negan revealed of his abdomen as his arms were stretched up high, lifting his white t-shirt.

“You’ll join us, won’t you?” he asked, noticing your stare.

You stood up from the steps and bravely said, “Maybe.” It was a lie.

He smiled.

***

**_Where has that pretty little thing got to?_ **

You quickly covered up the new words on your arm. _Pretty little thing._ Even though he questioned after your whereabouts, there were no shootings or yelling for you, so you decided you were free to be wherever you wanted without endangering the rest of the community’s safety. You knew he was only here for Rick, who hadn’t come back yet.

You wanted to be on watch, to look out for Rick’s car, but someone was already up on the gate and there were a bunch of unwelcoming Saviors near the entrance with their trucks. Their stares weren’t kind, and you’d rather not cause any trouble, so you kept your distance.

You frowned at the changing soulmark as you felt its burn and gritted your teeth against the pain. You could feel it – sarcasm. _His_ sarcasm. Bleeding off the words he spoke.

**_Well, Spencer – you might just be my new best friend._ **

***

_Spencer Monroe._

Negan’s eye twitched. He accepted the drinks and the conversation but something about this damn _kid_ really rubbed him the wrong way. _Spencer_ was entitled, he was slippery, a politician’s son. Dressed the way he was, clean hair and clothes, a look of superiority in his eyes. He didn’t like him.

Negan listened to the kid, nonetheless. It was something to do, with Rick still preoccupied, and he brought him out a bottle of whiskey and a pool table to entertain him, so why not indulge?

Negan slipped his leather jacket back on, gathering Lucille in his hands. No one had noticed the soulmark on the inside of his arm. It still read **_fuck off_** , so most people at the community probably just thought it was a shitty tattoo from a drunken night before the turn. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was growing concerned about the lack of change to the soulmark. It would’ve changed by now, knowing her, she had an attitude.

Part of him was getting used to her. Used to her words on his skin, used to communicating _to_ her, instead of just ignoring each other like they had all this time.

He shook thoughts of her away and flashed a smile at Spencer, “Who’s breaking then, huh?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reader lies about her name in this chapter so that's why there are two fake name options in [ ] just in case one of those names is actually your real name, lol. Just in case anyone gets confused. Thanks for reading!

You were quick to find the two men standing out on the street, one of the Alexandrian’s pool tables sitting in the middle of the road. After you saw your soulmark change, you knew Spencer would be in danger. He was smart but he wasn’t wise.

You watched from a distance as Negan broke the set on the pool table. Whatever Spencer was planning wouldn’t work on Negan; you knew that. You knew that Negan knew it too. The way his eyes flashed, the way he smiled too big, like he was letting Spencer only _think_ that he was in control. Negan was the type to go along until he wasn’t interested or entertained anymore.

Others from Alexandria crowded around the pool table at a safe distance, like you, both interested in the game not only on the table but between the two men, but also knowing the dangers of being too close to the leader of the Saviors.

You knew this wouldn’t end well.

Negan eyed you, a moment of distraction, and he caught your hard, analytical stare. You held it. You wouldn’t back down. You weren’t _afraid_ of him, but you were beginning to feel confused by him, and you knew it was unhealthy.

His eyebrow cocked just slightly at your defiance. He jabbed the pool cue, and you heard the balls clatter as they smacked on impact. You watched as the ball he aimed for fell into a corner pocket. He didn’t even smile. His eyes were searching the table for his next move, and he was quick to find it.

Meanwhile, Spencer practically dragged Rick’s name through the dirt.

You never cared for Spencer. He was a warm body for the night whenever you felt particularly lonely or bored. You knew he didn’t care for you either. You used each other for comfort. But it didn’t mean you would let him just dig his own grave.

You were closer to them now. One of the closest out of the rest of the crowd. You went to open your mouth, to warn Spencer, make him wake up and realize the danger but the words wouldn’t come. You were anxious for Spencer and if you said anything aloud, those words might form on Negan’s arm. You couldn’t risk it.

Negan took another shot. He went to set his pool cue down but instead, he sauntered over to you. He had noticed your hesitation to speak up. Instead of questioning it though, he held out his pool cue and said, “Hold this for me will you, princess?”

You nodded and took the stick into your hands.

Negan continued talking to Spencer with a sudden sense of authority. You could see the annoyance in the older man’s dark eyes. “If you wanna take over, why not just kill Rick yourself, _and just take over?_ ”

You felt the familiar sting on your skin and knew what the words there would read.

“ _Spencer_ ,” Negan breathed, venomously, and you watched your soulmate shake his head. Negan glanced at his arm and you held your breath, eyes widening, but then you realized you hadn’t even said anything yet. “I hate that name,” he mumbled quietly to himself, though loud enough for you to hear. He had finally remembered where he’d seen the name _Spencer_ before, and it was on his own _fuckin’_ arm.

Spencer immediately felt threatened and tried to clear up his “misunderstanding”, but Negan only held his hand in the air to silence him. You felt his anger even before you saw it in his eyes. _That_ anger, the one that seared your skin with his fiery words.

“You know what I’m thinkin? Coz I have a guess,” Negan said, and something was _wrong_. The feeling within you, the itching of the fresh words on your arm, you felt connected to the man more than you ever had before.

Negan continued, standing right up in Spencer’s personal space now, “It’s because… you got no _guts_ ,” and as he said it, Negan sliced open Spencer’s stomach with a large hunting knife.

You gasped, forcing a hand over your mouth before you could shout anything. The pool cue you had been gripping so tightly with sweaty hands fell to the asphalt, and you stumbled back. You felt sick at the sight of all the blood that poured out of his open stomach.

Spencer was wide-eyed, as if he didn’t quite believe it himself either. Then he dropped to his knees, holding his own guts in his hands. He fell onto his side with a slow and painful death.

You turned away. Rosita watched. You knew they had been together too, probably more than you and Spencer ever had.

Negan was saying something comical, you supposed, though his words were drowned out by the thumping of your heart in your chest. He was smiling, as if this were all just a big joke to him. Blood stained his chin, and his dark eyes were suddenly intimidating. You hadn’t been there to witness the night he murdered Glenn and Abraham, but you assumed this demeanor, this _comedic relief_ of his was just the same. He was heartless.

You wanted to be sick, but you forced yourself not to.

“Anybody up to finishing this game?” Negan announced, looking to each person in the shocked crowd. “Princess?” his eyes landed on yours, but you couldn’t make yourself say anything back with the blood pounding in your ears. You thought you might punch him in the face if you allowed yourself to move, allowed yourself to react. “ _C’mon—_ ”

There was a loud gunshot that cracked through the air, silencing Negan in his rambles. Rosita had aimed her gun, an _illegal_ gun, and fired a shot directly at your soulmate. You watched in horror as he stumbled back with momentum, Lucille between Rosita and himself, the bullet wedged deeply into the front side of the wooden bat. A shout ready to escape your lips at the anxiety you felt for your soulmate; a foreign feeling.

“ _What the hell_ —” he yelled, and your arm burned with fresh marks.

Rosita was quickly tackled to the ground. Guns were raised. You stood still. You kept your eyes on Negan, watching him as he moved, as he yelled. You refused to acknowledge the _burning_ pain in your arm as his anger rose with every word he spoke.

He was furious.

The pain was almost too much but you held your tongue. You focused your emotions and tried to ignore whatever the hell he was saying to Rosita. You breathed in and out, and you felt a little bit of fear. Who’s? Yours or Negan’s? It felt foreign—

“Arat,” Negan said, firmly, but walked in a much more relaxed manner than how he felt. Like just another day in his ordinary life. “Kill somebody,” he ordered.

You stared at the fallen cue by your feet.

“No!” Rosita yelled, and the Savior who had her pinned, Arat, pointed her gun in a seemingly random direction and pulled the trigger – Olivia collapsed on the porch, right next to Carl. You had to force yourself to check who was still standing.

Negan’s voice was distant and garbled, like you were sinking underwater. You stared at the pool cue. You stared because it was all you could do to control your words and emotions.

You could hear him speaking to Rick now, who had the unfortunate timing to get back to Alexandria as one of his people were killed. You tried to keep yourself upright and steady, but it was taking every ounce of energy in you to not scream at Negan for being a heartless murderer.

“ _Lucille_ , give me strength,” Negan breathed, and that name was clear as day to your ears. You suddenly wondered if you were the only one who knew the identity of the real Lucille. Negan continued speaking to Rick, “I’m gonna be relieving you of your bullet-maker, Rick—”

“Now—” Negan announced suddenly, “Before. I. Leave.” His eyes fell on yours, and he smiled an almost wicked grin. It immediately made you nervous. He walked up to you and got so close that you could smell a faint hint of whiskey on his breath and smell the blood on his clothes mixed with that familiar cologne you’d noticed the first time meeting him.

His ungloved hand touched your face, sliding his fingers from your cheek to hold your chin. This touch alone confused your senses. You were suddenly scared but intrigued. This wasn’t like the secret glances or charming smiles, this was skin-to-skin contact with your soulmate and it was _different_. Different than anything you’d ever experienced before. Emotions overcame you and you knew the control you had was slipping away.

“Doll,” he breathed, his dark eyes only watching your own. “You’re a real mighty, sweet treat to look at, you know? I gotta know your name.” His words left you speechless, his touch left you breathless. Your thoughts floundered for a solution.

You tried your best to hide the immediate panic in your eyes, but something tightened in your chest. You were tired. Tired of being so cautious, tired of feeling like every word you breathed would bring down a hell you wouldn’t be able to escape from. This man was your soulmate. Didn’t that mean he was your responsibility? And yet, all you had succumbed to was hiding from him while he killed those around you.

You knew deep down that this had to stop.

“My name is [Annabelle]/[Isabelle],” you said, and your voice was even and your eyes unafraid but even though you hadn’t realized it quite yet, you knew, deep down, you had given up hiding from this man.

You ignored the confused looks from your friends who had heard you lie outright.

“Well, [Annabelle]/[Isabelle],” he started, dropping his hand from your chin, “I can tell you right fuckin’ now that this place—” he gestured to the community with a wave of his hand, “it ain’t gonna be pretty from here on out. You might not like it here much anymore.” He lingered on a pause, watching you for a reaction of fear or interest, of which neither you could give him. “So, how’s about an offer you can’t refuse, huh?”

You watched his hazel eyes. They were cautious but piercing and confident. He smiled when you wouldn’t respond. Your defiance towards him, he liked that about you. That and the fact that silence offered a lot more than mere angry words. He could tell, all this time, that you were fighting _hard_ to keep your mouth shut. Knowing that he had that effect on you, well, it turned him on just a little.

Your words might be small, little, practically nonexistent, but your eyes were big and strong, fierce, and he could see right through whatever façade it was you had shown him all of today. He knew that underneath all of your averted glances and silence, you were a survivor.

“My place,” he continued, as if he hadn’t analyzed you at all, “my _Sanctuary_ , I could take you back there. You could be one of my wives. Live in luxury, safety. How about it, sweetheart?”

Would it be better? Just to get it over with?

No, you couldn’t let yourself breed doubt. You inhaled and then exhaled, and calmly responded with, “No, thank you.”

“ _No, thank you!_ ” he boomed humorously, clearly amused at your choice of words and deliverance. “My, my…” he eyed you curiously, “the manners on you. I love it.” He glanced over towards the Alexandrian leader, “Rick? Take some lessons from… [Annabelle]/[Isabelle].”

Rick only looked at you. He was good at masking his confusion when he needed to, but you knew he was curious as to why you lied about your true name. Nevertheless, he trusted your actions, but he would probably have a million questions about it later, in which you would finally have to confess.

“Walk with me to the trucks at least?” Negan asked, as if he was asking you to walk him to the front door after a dinner date.

You restrained a sigh and followed him up to the trucks.

***

Negan turned before he clambered up the side of the truck, taking one last look at that sweet thing he wished he could take home with him. She really was a sight. “My doors and my bed will _always_ be open to you, sweets,” he said without shame. He flashed her another smile and then climbed up into the truck. But he didn’t order his driver to head off just yet.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, yanking up his jacket sleeve. The damn soulmark had been itching up a storm, and as much as he wanted to relieve it, he didn’t want anyone from Alexandria to know about it. But now, as he sat in the truck, there was a burning about it. He sensed fear or anxiety.

He peered at the new tattoo on his arm, fresh and swollen, “What the hell is wrong with this kid now…” he muttered to himself out of frustration, only just beginning to read the sentence scribbled along his skin. His eyes narrowed and his frustration turned to an angry kind of shock.

**_My name is [Annabelle]/[Isabelle]._**

The driver watched Negan with intensity. He’d seen that anger only once before. He was waiting for him to start yelling or throw a fuss about something they forgot to do or organize. However, there was just a cold kind of silence from the older man.

“Boss?”

***

You were waiting eagerly for the trucks to drive off, to feel safe again, when Negan unexpectedly opened his door and jumped out of the vehicle. He looked _pissed_. Your eyes flitted to Rick’s but neither of you knew what it could be about.

You watched as the older man practically shoved Lucille into the hands of one of his Saviors who hadn’t even had time to get into the truck yet, and he stumbled back with the weight of the weapon and the aggression at which it was passed. He watched his enraged boss cross over from the truck to you.

You held your breath as Negan approached.

“ _You_ ,” he spat so venomously, his voice low, you had to keep yourself from flinching visibly. Negan ignored Rick’s weak attempts to calm him down, to talk out the issue instead of acting, but all the while Rick pleaded with him, Negan only looked at you. His hazel eyes alight with fire, he stared you down as he loomed above, invading your personal space.

You didn’t budge or move; you would not cower in fear to your own soulmate.

He smiled, but it wasn’t the charming kind you grew used to. It was cruel. He swallowed, his dark eyes searching yours, as if he were waiting for _you_ to explain why he was so angry. You didn’t know what he wanted you to say, so instead you held your ground, a stand-off between you both while the growing crowd watched with fear.

“Your name isn’t [Annabelle]/[Isabelle],” he growled, finally breaking the tense silence. “You’re a fuckin’ liar, Y/F/N Y/L/N.” He announced your name, full name, with such clarity and confidence that you could’ve trembled.

Your heart was racing. He knew who you were. He finally knew the secret. But you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of being afraid, not now.

“Show me your arm,” he ordered, no sign of amusement or charm in his eyes or on his lips like the cheery man he was before.

“I—”

“Your _arm_.” His eyes never left yours and he wasn’t playing around with you anymore. If you refused him, there would be consequences. “Show it to me, right fuckin’ _now_ , sunshine.” He didn’t yell, he hadn’t even raised his voice, yet it sounded cold and more threatening than if he had shouted.

When you still wouldn’t offer up your arm to him voluntarily, he made a grab for it. You stumbled back, pulling away from him, but he fought hard to keep you from running. He had your other arm in his grip, but he knew which one would prove your connection.

A Savior approached the pair of you, but Negan cursed and told them to back off. You twisted out of his grip and turned on your heels, but he easily grabbed a fistful of your long-sleeve and yanked you right back. You turned and reached for his hand to loosen his hold on your shirt, but it was practically useless.

He reeled you in and turned around you to face him, a hand clasped the front of your shirt now instead of the back. “There’s no point fightin’ me.”

You shoved him in the chest, letting out all the pent-up anxiety and rage that simmered within you while you had to keep him a secret from everyone, and you a secret from him. The Alexandrians and Saviors alike were shocked by your aggression towards the man, both probably wondering if you had a suicide wish.

You made to shove him in the chest _again_ when he caught both of your arms by the wrists. You yanked and you pulled desperately to loosen his grip but there was no use, he had a hold on you, and you weren’t getting out of it.

You stared up at him, defeated. You swallowed.

He grabbed the arm he was sure of and easily pushed the sleeve up with one swift movement. His fingers gripped your arm so tightly as he read your soulmark. Which said, **_You’re a fuckin’ liar, Y/F/N Y/L/N._**

“Right under my nose, this whole time…” he said in disbelief, almost as if in awe. He was staring at your arm, your _soulmark_ , as if it were unreal.

You took a moment to notice the shock on both Saviors and Alexandrians alike. You knew it was over, whatever safety you had left to cling to, would be ripped from your grasp.

“You fuckin’ _knew_ it, too,” he practically growled, still holding your arm. His eyes burned through yours, “How’d you know it was me? How’d you—” he dropped your arm in a fit of abrupt frustration, “Never mind,” he cut himself off from continuing. You missed his touch in the strangest way, you wanted it back, but that was a dangerous thought to have.

He ran a hand through his hair, the blood still speckled his chin. Spencer’s blood. “Fuckin’ Spencer… fuckin’ should’a known, just look at you—” he glared at you as if your existence was anything but helpful or useful to him. He gestured for his Saviors to leave. He eyed Rick.

“Y/N—” Rick started.

“ _Shut up_ ,” Negan growled back, interrupting him. He looked as if he were deep in thought for a moment, a moral dilemma, an important, executive decision to be made. His dark eyes narrowed on yours, and he said, “Get in the fuckin’ truck.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long break between chapters, such a busy start to 2021 and not to mention all the technical difficulties lately! (technology hates me). Hoping to return to a better update schedule soon!

The tension between you and Negan on the ride back to Sanctuary was almost unbearable. You could feel his concern and anger, maybe even regret, but as you’ve come to know, Negan’s emotions were usually hard to pick. Though he was quiet all the way, you knew something was stewing underneath the façade he had put on for you. 

And you were nervous to find out what exactly it was that he felt. 

Once you made it to the Sanctuary, you couldn’t help but widen your eyes at the sight of it all. A large fence surrounded the tall, well protected building, though the stench of the walkers that littered the front was too pungent to ignore. You scrunched your face up as Negan practically dragged you out of the truck, his hand clasped firmly around your arm. 

Negan didn’t even acknowledge Simon’s existence as he tore through the crowd of Saviors and workers alike, leaving you little time to even get a glimpse of the inside. From what you could see in those couple minutes it took for you to leave the ground floor and reach the top, Negan and his Saviors knew what they were doing – they _knew_ how to survive. But what they didn’t know was compassion. 

The room he led you to was far away from any of the main action. The more stairs you climbed, the less people you saw bustling about. It seemed everyone had their place, their job, and you were about to find out yours. 

He stopped in front of a door with hushed voices behind. Only you, Negan and the Savior who had killed Olivia, Arat, lingered outside the room. He didn’t bother knocking, instead, he swung the door wide open and walked in, pulling you with him. Arat followed closely behind. 

The room was well-lit and resembled some kind of parlor. There were couches and a cabinet of drinks, pretty women standing or lounging, dolled up and clean. It was like you stepped through a door into your past, before the turn, and right into some kind of college party. 

Negan finally let go of your arm, and again, that feeling of the loss of his touch was almost overwhelming. He wouldn’t look at you though, instead he turned to the other women in the room and barked, “Clean her up, get her a dress. I’ll be by later.” He made to leave the room but stopped short, turning on his heel a moment, he looked at the female Savior, “Arat,” he looked as though he was hesitant, and there was a sort of softness to his hazel eyes, but he was quick to fall back into his usual demeanor, “make sure she doesn’t go around killing anyone.” With that, he left, slamming the door shut behind him. Not even as much as a glance toward you. 

He probably could have done without the last comment, you thought, as you realized how all his... _women_ were looking at you. His wives, you concluded. They must have thought you were some kind of animal – you weren’t clean and soft looking like them, though you weren’t as feral as you were when living before Alexandria. 

“One of us leaves and he’s already got a replacement...” one of them muttered, ignoring the threatening presence of Arat behind you. Maybe they were used to there always being a Savior lingering about in their space. Maybe you’d have to get used to it, too. 

“Well?” Arat said, almost bored. “You gonna do what the boss said or not?” 

One of the wives blinked. She had ginger hair and a pretty face. She was the one to approach you, her heels clicking over the hard floor’s surface. She reached for your wrist. 

As her fingers touched your arm, you yanked it away from her and growled, “Don’t fucking touch me.” You were not in the mood to be played around with like some kind of doll, owned by the sadistic killer who murdered whomever he pleased. You stared menacingly at her, breathing harsh, if you had to, you could take her on. She probably hadn’t had to fight anyone or anything for a while. She was probably as soft as she looked. 

The main concern would be Arat, however. She did _not_ look soft, not at all. 

“My name’s Frankie,” the woman said, seeming to be unphased by your threat. Though, she didn’t make another grab for your arm. She eyed you warily, but she must have feared Negan’s wrath more than your feeble attempt to scare her off, and that only concerned you further. How much of this was manipulation? Did these women _really_ want to be Negan’s wives? 

“We’ve got our own showers and we can lend you a dress that fits,” she continued. 

“I don’t want it.” 

Frankie refrained from sighing and glanced at Arat, who quickly nudged you in the back with the end of her hunting knife, giving you a little push in the shoulder with her free hand. You stumbled forward but with the momentum from her shove, you twisted around to face her, grabbing the arm that held the knife. You rammed her into the wall behind her to shake the knife from her fingers. Weaponless and dazed, you took this opportunity to knock her flat on her back, pinning her down with your weight. 

Arat groaned. She struggled against your grip but quickly kicked your gut with her boot. Knocked back, you held your stomach and gasped for breath. With no time to lose, you desperately lunged for Arat’s fallen knife, your outstretched fingers close to the weapon, when Negan’s wife, Frankie, scooped it up first. 

She shakily held it out at you, trying hard to seem threatening. She probably wouldn’t hurt you, though you wouldn’t be one to test that. Besides, Arat was the one you were worried about – and there was no doubting Frankie’s allegiance to Negan’s Saviors. 

You stood up slowly with raised hands in defeat. 

Frankie passed the knife back to Arat, who, in her anger, sheathed the weapon and kicked you harshly to the ground. Frankie stepped back, swallowing her nerves, and joined the other wives who clearly wanted to stay out of it all. 

You were on your knees. Arat paced behind you, angry that you’d gotten her down so quickly. If Frankie hadn’t been there, you would have easily gotten the upper hand once that knife was in your grip. Arat grabbed a fistful of your hair unexpectedly and yanked it back so that you were forced to look up at the ceiling. Your nerves grew as you felt the cool metal of her knife against the front of your neck. 

You gulped, maybe, this was the way to go, after all, living with your murderous soulmate across the hall wasn’t exactly ideal. 

“Arat—” Frankie spoke up, composing herself from speaking out of term, “Negan doesn’t like scars. I wouldn’t do that to her now that she’s his wife.” 

_Wife._

Arat glared at the girl, fearing Negan above anyone else. She huffed and her mouth was by your ear, she yanked harder on your hair causing you to wince, “Try that shit with me again and I’ll give you _hell_.” She removed her knife from your neck and kicked you forward, “Get up.” 

You did as you were told but the seething anger and hatred within you was bubbling over the edge. 

Frankie practically pulled you into the bathroom while Arat stood outside the door, having given you one last warning about your behavior. You stood on the cold tiled floor, shoeless, stripped down naked, as Frankie adjusted the shower knobs for you. You hugged yourself tightly, thinking about cozy beds and warm soup – anything to distract your mind from the crap you’d be living through now. 

The red head gestured to all the shampoos and soaps you could borrow for today, explaining something about a points system and how you could acquire your own stuff soon. You stepped into the warm water, welcoming the steam and heat, closing the shower curtain behind you. The water felt good against your muscles and for a moment, you could breathe without feeling sick. 

“I can shower by myself, you know,” you said, reaching for the shampoo. 

“I know,” Frankie called over the gushing water. She was sitting on the edge of the sink, the mirror behind her fogging up. “I can’t leave you alone, though. Unless you want Arat to supervise you cleaning yourself?” 

You rolled your eyes even though the girl wouldn’t be able to see it. She had a point. It probably wasn’t the smartest move to piss a Savior off, she would definitely be on your back now, always watching. You sighed, scrubbing your hair almost furiously. “What did you call me?” you asked, tipping your head back to rinse the shampoo. “When Arat had her knife on me.” 

Frankie was lost for a moment, and you thought she didn’t quite hear you when she finally answered, though it was more like a question, “Negan’s wife?” 

You swallowed, staring up at the ceiling as the warm water rushed down your hair and back. _Negan’s wife._ So, that was who you were now. Without a question, without an answer. You conditioned your hair, suddenly wondering what exactly were the requirements of being Negan’s wife? 

“You’ll need this,” Frankie suddenly said, a hand poking through an open slit in the curtain. She held out a pink razor towards you. You took it, holding the thing in your hands as you stared. You never bothered to shave anymore. 

The blade was a little blunt but it got the job done. You were mostly hairless, clean, smooth skin and smelling like flowers and vanilla, or whatever other scents were squeezed into the bottles you used. You quickly wrapped yourself up in a towel after drying your hair as best as you could and Frankie slipped out to retrieve some clothes for you. 

The steam lingered in the air of the bathroom. You wiped away the fog that clouded the mirror, and a distorted image of your half-naked, wet-self stared back. You gripped the edges of the sink with both hands and breathed. The air in the bathroom was wet and thick from the heat of the shower. You tried to calm yourself nonetheless, but the anger inside only deepened. This wasn’t what you wanted. 

You were a rat, trapped in a cage, no way out. 

The door opened and closed again, and Frankie’s voice was soft, “This one is mine, the other is Tanya’s.” She held up two black dresses, both synched in at the waist, plain and both cut off either at short sleeve or at the top of the shoulder. 

You let go of the sink, ignoring the way she was looking at you. You took a step closer to her and ignored the way her eyes widened at the sight of the scars on your arms. If Negan didn’t like scars, he really wasn’t gonna like you much. It was almost ironic. 

“I—” 

“Maybe something with sleeves,” you suggested, cutting her off before she could say anything about your arms. 

She opened her mouth to respond but instead let it slide. She exited the bathroom again but came back quicker than before. With her this time, she held one dress. It had a mock neck and sheer black lace, at the cleavage and sleeves, underneath the lace was plain back material. It offered a little shape to your body, which you were sure Negan wanted, and the lace pattern over the sleeves seemed intricate enough to distract the casual passerby from your soulmark. 

You took the dress from her and eyed it a moment longer. 

“What I said about the scars—” 

“This will do,” you concluded, making to drop the towel, but Frankie had other plans in mind. She wouldn’t back down. 

“It’s not true. Negan doesn’t give a shit about scars or no scars. I just said it so Arat wouldn’t actually hurt you.” she confessed, and then shoved a clean pair of underwear into your hands before she turned her back on you, silent. 

You stared at the underwear. Plain and black. It seemed he really liked the color black on his women. You refrained from sighing and slipped on both undies and bra before shimmying yourself into the small dress. A little shorter than you hoped but you were thankful for the sleeves. 

Frankie turned and helped zip you up. It fit well. She smiled, “You look nice.” 

You offered a smile back. You decided to play at this game with them as best as you could, but you _knew_ , the first chance you have, you’d get yourself out. This wasn’t a forever plan. You knew you couldn’t return to Alexandria, and as sad as that was, you’d lived on the road before. You could do it again. 

“You’ll have to put on some makeup too, he likes that.” 

“I don’t care what he likes,” you muttered, smoothing out the skirt. You glanced at yourself in the mirror again, someone else staring back. You couldn’t be that person. It was impossible. 

“Well, get used to it,” she replied, crossing over to the mirror to pick up a makeup bag. “There isn’t anything you can do about it now.” She unzipped the bag and fumbled with bottles and palettes, “Besides, isn’t this what you wanted?” 

You shook your head, “None of you _want_ this.” 

She swallowed, shifting her eyes uncomfortably. She procured some mascara and applied it to your lashes, the sensation was weird and almost forgotten – and you were suddenly thrown back into high school, as if you were here for a sleepover with your best friend. “Maybe not,” she finally sighed, giving your cheeks a bit of color. “But we still had a choice, he didn’t force us.” 

“Well,” you said bitterly, staring at the woman in the mirror, “he didn’t ask me.” 

*** 

**_I don’t care what he likes._ **

Resentment. That was what Negan felt as her words tattooed his skin. He sighed. It’d been a hell of a day. He didn’t really know how to process it all, yet. First, Rick’s serial killer, one-eyed kid trying to _kill him,_ the damn thing with Rosita, a missing wife and Daryl, and now her. His soulmate. Living in his house, breathing his air. 

He had a lot on his mind. There were things he had to do, to _plan_ , yet all he could think about was what the fuck was he supposed to do with _her_ ? This wasn’t on the fucking to-do list. She wasn’t supposed to be found. All of her life and he hadn’t seen a blink of her, but now, in a damn _apocalypse_ , they cross paths? Fate, destiny? Negan laughed cruelly at this thought, shaking his head, he wasn’t a big believer in any of that crap. If anything, it was just his bad luck that she showed up when she did. 

***

Negan stayed true to his word and came by the parlor again. You were sitting next to the blonde wife, Amber, who was too busy with a bottle of wine to really notice your presence. You didn’t mind. You didn’t have the mental energy to care about conversing with the little squad of wives Negan had so carefully manipulated into marriage. 

Amber poured her second glass when you took the bottle and gulped down a mouthful. Setting it back onto the coffee table, you ignored the side glance Amber threw your way. She wasn’t going to judge you for it, that would be hypocritical of her, but she thought that maybe you could have at least used one of the glasses. 

The alcohol was a little sweeter than you first thought it would be but enough to sink the nerves, just a bit. 

It wasn’t like Negan would take you all this way here, dress you up like one of his trophies and demand your commitment to him just to kill you, so death was ruled out for now—but becoming his wife? It didn’t make sense. Negan didn’t want to know you. 

The door opened after a couple casual knocks. His hands weren’t gloved anymore but he still sported his black, leather jacket. It seemed he had showered as his hair was still a little damp and the blood from his clothes and face was gone. 

He stepped inside like he owned the place, because of course, he did. And apparently everyone inside it. His eyes surveyed Amber’s interesting drinking habits and then they reluctantly fell on you. “Y/N,” he said, slowly. He didn’t smile. He didn’t joke. 

“Negan,” Frankie greeted, and kissed him sweetly on the cheek. 

You rolled your eyes. Negan raised his brow at you.

Tanya didn’t greet him so sweetly but didn’t ignore his existence like Amber, who seemed to have a lot more interest in her wine. 

You stood up from the couch and smoothed out your dress with your hands. You approached him but didn’t flash him a smile or kiss his cheek, you didn’t even give him as much as a hello. Instead, you looked anywhere but his eyes, your face stoic. You might dress pretty for him but you wouldn’t  _ be  _ pretty. 

He opened the door and gestured for you to walk through, and you did, as he bid goodbye to his other wives who stayed behind. He closed the door behind him and lingered in the hall.

“You look nice,” he said, the firmness from before gone from his voice. 

You didn’t respond. A thought flashed in your mind and you wondered, if you were now supposedly married to each other, did he want to consummate it? Your chest tightened; you would die before you let him touch you like that. 

Negan clenched his jaw instead of firing back with a snide remark at your forced silence, and he led you to another door not far from the parlor. He opened it with ease and let you walk in first, closing the door behind him. 

You were greeted by big windows on one wall, now alight with the beginnings of a setting sun, a leather couch and two one-seaters. You noticed the bed which was big and grand, just like he thought of himself, and you frowned, realizing you’d walked straight into the dragon’s lair —his bedroom. 

You turned with a fiery look in your eyes, no longer pretending he didn’t exist, “What the hell is this?”

“Not what you think,” he argued, practically glaring. He pointed to a one-seater, “Sit.”

You eyed him suspiciously and was hesitant to sit down, but you knew by the tone of his voice that he wasn’t in the mood to put up with you in the slightest, so you did as you were told. You didn’t exactly want another incident like the one with Arat. 

You watched the older man as he took a seat across from you on the leather couch. He looked tired, exhausted, maybe. But you weren’t about to empathize with his feelings. “Why bring me here?”

He eyed you, “Don’t go ordering answers from me like you’re the boss here, okay?” He sighed deeply, reaching for a glass decanter that sat on the coffee table between you. He poured himself a glass of the ember liquid, then looked at you, “Whiskey?”

You nodded.

“Course...” he breathed, pouring you some.

“Thanks,” you muttered as he finished, and took a sip. The warm liquid shot down your body and you felt a little bit of relief, though still tense. Your soulmate was watching you carefully and it only made you more nervous. You set the drink down and bravely looked him in the eyes. Hazel, they glowed with the orange hues from the setting sun. The way his hair fell made him look younger than he probably was, and his hands in his lap begged to be felt— 

“Now,” he started, looking away from you, “I brought you here because I can’t have my soul— I can't have  _ you  _ living at Alexandria. Now that I know who you are.”

You fought the urge to laugh at his avoidance of the subject, and challenged him, “And what am I?”

He looked at you, annoyed, “A liability.” He downed another mouthful, “I’m sure you get the picture...”

You glanced at your  soulmark through the sheer lace, which had read,  **_ Y/N.  _ ** You knew what he was getting at. Of course, he couldn’t let you stay at Alexandria since you had access to secret information via this unfortunate  soulmark . If only you could get rid of it. 

_ A liability _ . 

You ignored his comment about not asking him questions and spoke, “So, just like that, I’m your wife now?” there was a sense of bitterness in your voice. 

He looked uncomfortable at your remark and you took another sip of the whiskey. 

“Yes,” he finally said.

“The others said they had a choice,” you argued, though you knew deep down they didn’t  _ really  _ have a choice. Not if their family’s lives were on the line, though Negan only looked at it as if it were a simple yes or no. “I don’t?”

He fiddled with his almost empty glass, “This is the only option.”

“Just let me go.”

He looked up from his hands at you, frowning. Staring at you with incredulity. 

“I won’t go back to Alexandria,” you bargained, letting the panic, the  _ anxiety _ of being forced to stay here show, “I’ll live out there and you won’t ever hear from me again. I’ve done it before—”

“No,” he interrupted, and firmly set his glass down on the table. “Like I said, this is the only option.”

You sat back in your chair, defeated. You practically laughed, “ _ Why?”  _

“As my wife, you get protection. I’ll know where you are, what you’re doing...”

“And?” you argued.

“I’m not just  gonna kick you back out onto the road.” He leaned forward in his seat, his voice firm, “We both know, going back out there will just get you killed.”

“Right,” you scoffed, nodding your head, “because you  _ really  _ care about my protection and well-being. You  _ really  _ care whether I live or die—”

“I do—”

“You  _ never  _ gave a shit about me, Negan. Don’t start pretending to now.”

“I’m  _ not _ ,” he growled, his dark eyes serious. He shook his head, “You can’t just  _ show up _ , you know?” He stood up as he said this, a sort of distress in his eyes. “You  gotta take just a little bit of responsibility for it. Because now— now  _ I  _ have to make sure that you don’t fucking drop dead on me.”

“Bullshit!” you yelled, standing up in a rush of fury. “We both know you’d rather me dead than breathing the same air as you, so just let me go!” The anger you felt for him, this situation, you suddenly weren’t sure where it was coming from. But it had exploded right in his face and it was too late for you to take it back.

You thought he would scream at you, flare his nostrils, pace angrily up and down the room, but he didn’t. He stood there, across from you, silent. His dark eyes unable to leave yours. His mouth set firmly, reflecting a frown. 

You tried to hide the fear in your voice but you were sure he sensed it as you continued, “I will not be taken as a prisoner again.”

Negan blinked at this, looking at you with fresh eyes. He seemed curious by what you meant but you hoped he wouldn’t ask. You didn’t even mean to say it, it just came out – your last ditch-effort to plead your freedom with him. 

You weren’t sure if he was considering this new information, you weren’t sure what he made of it, but he finally answered you, “I can’t let you leave.” 

You knew, when you saw his stare, there was no changing his mind. You felt it in the skin of your arm, the stubbornness but also something else, something close to concern, but maybe that was just your own emotion bleeding through. 

You glanced at your seat but you didn’t move from your spot. “Who else knows?”

“The Saviors will keep it a secret,” he said quickly. 

“So, I have to, as well. Keep it from your wives.”

Negan reached a hand to the back of his head, the leather squeaking with the movement. He sighed. “Yeah.”

You nodded, the anger from before having been exuded through your angry explosion but a bitterness was left behind, you could practically taste it. Not only would you be trapped among people who supported this murderer, but you would be on  _ their  _ side against Alexandria, your friends. 

Negan wandered over to his bedroom door and knocked twice, he stepped aside and an unnamed Savior opened his door. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

You guessed that was that, and quickly followed the Savior out of the room. But before you could leave completely, Negan grabbed a hold of your arm. He was hesitant at first, but he was quick to resume the menacing demeanor he so easily portrayed, “Don’t yell and carry on at me again, Y/N. You can’t pull that shit here.”

You nodded. 

As the Savior escorted you back to the parlor, you glanced at your arm through the sheer sleeve.

**_ I can’t let you leave.  _ **


End file.
